


Fun In Space

by tenderbri



Category: Queen (Band), Smile (Band)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sentimental, set vaguely in 1986 post-Magic Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderbri/pseuds/tenderbri
Summary: Roger makes an effort to reconnect with Tim. Tim makes a surprising discovery.
Relationships: Tim Staffell & Roger Taylor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: Tim Staffell Appreciation Weekend 2021





	Fun In Space

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the prompts for Day 2 and 3 of Tim Staffell Appreciation Weekend:
> 
> Day 2: "Finding out he made the alien model for Roger’s 'Fun In Space' cover"  
> Day 3: "Reminiscing"
> 
> I don't quite know when Tim found out about the Fun in Space alien, so this is probably deviating heavily from real life events, but I thought the idea of setting this in the second half of the 80s would make for a very interesting dynamic – because of where both of them were in their lives at that point (Tim not having returned to music yet and Roger being where he was in his career). I'm not sure about how well this flows, this somehow made a bit more sense in my head, but I hope this is at least somewhat cohesive. Anyway. Enjoy :)

_Late 1986_

Tim pensively swilled his drink around the delicate crystal glass that one of the waiting staff had just handed him, and cast a subtle glance around Roger’s crowded living room. The term “Living room” was an understatement – the space was sprawling and opulent and probably could have fit Tim’s entire house. There were guests milling about everywhere, draped over luxurious armchairs, talking, drinking, laughing raucously. Among the immaculately teased hair, expensive designer jackets, and perfectly white smiles, Tim couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place. 

He had been surprised when Roger had invited him – about as surprised as when Roger had rung him up completely out of the blue a month ago, after several years of very minimal contact. They’d run into each other over the years at the odd event, but those had become more and more scarce with time and had finally ceased entirely – mostly thanks to the fact that Tim didn’t really move in professional musicians’ circles anymore. From what Tim had gathered, Brian had given Roger Tim’s number and Roger, apparently hit by one of his intense sentimental streaks, had been eager to reconnect. This had touched Tim quite a bit, though he still wasn't sure why Roger would have reached out. Fame and fortune and beautiful people orbited Roger like he was the fucking sun. He certainly didn't lack friends.

Tim hadn’t ever been to one of Roger’s parties before, at least not post Queen fame. The royal piss-ups they’d had at the dingy house in Ferry Road as students were a far cry from the glitz and glamour of Roger’s country house gathering...though presently, Tim did appreciate that the quality of drink had improved immensely.

In one corner of the room, a guy whom he vaguely recognised from a recent cover of NME but couldn’t for the life of him recall the name of, was regaling a small crowd of admirers with twanging strums on one of their host’s preciously rare guitars. Tim let out a little snort – if Roger was as protective of his guitars as Tim remembered him being of his drums, this poor willowy slip of a budding pop star was in for a nasty outburst. But then Tim heard the unmistakable rasp of his old friend’s laugh drifting through the crowd and the next minute, Roger emerged, drink in hand, stylish sunglasses perched in place. Tim wondered how many people in this room knew that this was because he was blind as a bat without them. Roger plopped himself down beside the would-be guitar virtuoso, clapping him gamefully on the shoulder and egging him on good naturedly. 

_Huh_. Perhaps middle age had softened him up a bit.

It was curious how much could change in a span of one and a half decades or so. It was hard to imagine, looking at Roger now, that he’d very much come from the same humble beginnings as Tim. Back in their Smile days, he and Roger would make a habit of poking fun at the toffs at Christie's, when the two of them accompanied Brian on one of his desperate hunts for stereo pairs he couldn’t possibly afford. Tim thought those snotty rich kids wouldn’t have looked out of place here. He smoothed a hand down his front self consciously. At home, as he’d stood before the mirror, his intricately patterned vintage waistcoat had seemed much less shabby than it did now and Tim hadn’t even noticed the stain on his shirt cuff, which he now rolled up awkwardly. 

Tim didn’t like the feeling he got from comparing himself to Roger or his guests. The fact was that he actually felt very happy with the life he’d built for himself in the past few years– he had a lovely little family, an interesting job and financial security, finally – so he couldn’t understand why being here was dragging him down. He’d been around rich and famous people before – his model making and graphic designing meant dealing with quite a few high ups in the British film and TV business. He’d even worked for a Python. Still – this felt different, somehow. Maybe because it was Roger. Tim hadn’t forgotten the sting in his heart as he’d watched Queen soar to international fame in the 70s. It wasn’t even a jealousy thing, he simply envied that the others had managed to make their life’s passion an actual career – something he’d ultimately failed at.

He was promptly shook from his brooding thoughts when somebody brushed past him with a tray of finely cut white lines, and Tim decided that was his cue to get out of this particular room. 

Ambling down the emptier hallway, Tim let his gaze drift over the framed platinum and gold records that hung on the walls. Such modesty. But then again, modesty had never really been part of Roger’s vocabulary, so in that aspect, nothing had really changed. Tim chuckled in spite of himself.

A thin shaft of light fell across the Italian carpet at the end of the hall and Tim approached the half-ajar door, to have a curious peek inside. It was a large, but unexpectedly homey room, with a big desk in front of a bay window. There was a haphazard cluster of family photographs arranged on the desktop and the floor was scattered with kid’s toys. A black telecaster was propped carelessly up against the worn leather desk chair, and on the desk lay an abandoned note pad with unintelligibly scrawled lyrics and tabs that Tim couldn’t make out from where he stood. This had to be Roger’s office. Evidently, he had been called away from here by his arriving guests earlier that evening and had simply left his work out to return to it later. Tim felt a small rush of fondness envelop him. How often had he been met with a similar sight when he’d got home after uni, been poked in the back by a rogue drumstick buried in their squashy old couch, nearly tripped over Brian’s Old Lady in the hall on the way to the loo at night. This was familiar. And quintessentially Roger – the messy, creative and brilliant Roger he remembered. 

Tim was still hovering on the threshold, certain this space wasn’t meant to be invaded by party guests, no matter how long they’d known the host for and he was just about to turn and quietly close the door again, when a voice spoke from behind Tim, nearly frightening him to death.

“Wondered where you’d got to, mate”

Tim spun around and was met with a smiling Roger. 

“Right, erm…” Tim floundered, not quite sure whether Roger would be annoyed at him for snooping. But his friend was still smiling good-naturedly.

“Trying to get away from the partying?”

Tim’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “Yeah, something like that.”

He eyed Roger’s pupils. He had taken off his sunglasses and Tim could see that Roger’s eyes were clear and alert.

“I see you’re not partaking,” Tim drew the pad of his thumb under his nose in an unmistakable gesture.

Roger smiled easily. “No.” He leaned against the door frame. “It’s my turn to do the school run tomorrow. Can’t make jam sandwiches sniffed off my tits now, can I.”

Tim chuckled. “You talked about your kids on the phone...Felix and–”

“Rory,” Roger grinned proudly. He sidestepped Tim and slipped into the room, striding over to his desk to pick up a picture frame, motioning for Tim to come join him. Tim crossed the room as well and peered down at the adorable toddler blinking up at the camera. Holding her was a little brown haired boy with a devilish glint in his eye that was all-too familiar. Tim looked sideways at Roger who was gazing down at the picture, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That made Tim more at ease than he’d felt all evening – this he could do. The proud Dad role came to Tim like the easiest thing in the world. He dug in the back pocket of his black jeans to fish out his wallet and held up a slightly crumpled picture he’d taken of Pam and the kids the previous summer. 

“You remember Pam. And that’s my oldest, Andrew, and David, and our youngest, Richard. And–” he ducked his head somewhat ruefully, “Me and Pam are trying for the next one. I really want a girl.”

“Cor!” Roger marveled and flashed a big grin. “You've certainly been busy! Could give our John a run for his money.” He squeezed Tim’s shoulder gently. "

Tim felt a bit flummoxed by this show of affection. Roger had never shied away from that, but it had been so long since they’d been this casual and relaxed with each other, just the two of them alone with nobody else around. He suddenly felt quite homesick for his twenties.

“You fancy hanging about in here for a bit,” Roger asked, “finish your drink, catch up a bit more?” He started gathering up loose papers from the sofa in the far corner of the room. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Tim nodded, “as long as your guests won’t miss you.” He sat down beside Roger on the sofa.

Roger snorted. “They’ll be fine. Hey, d’you wanna try this new whiskey I got in–“

But Tim wasn’t listening. With a small surprised “Oh!”, he sprang straight back up from the sofa and strode over to the opposite side of the room to the small fireplace that had previously been obscured by the open door. He gaped, completely nonplussed. 

“What,” he gasped, “on _earth_...is Jeff doing on your mantelpiece?”

Roger, slightly distracted by his little drinks cart, glanced up, “You what?”

Tim carefully picked up the familiar model of the little pale blue alien and held it out to Roger.

“Oh that,” Roger flapped his hand airily, “that little bloke was on the cover of my solo album...so you bought that one then?” He looked slightly pleased. “It really wasn’t that successful, but it was a real passion project that–”

Tim interrupted him impatiently, “No, I didn’t realise– I _made_ this, Rog.”

“Huh?”

Tim flipped the little alien over and walked over to show Roger the stamp on the base of the model. “This is the old design studio I used to work for. And look here,” he pointed at the serial number, “T.S. and the date I completed it.”

“You’re kidding,” Roger laughed, stunned. He took the alien from Tim’s grasp, examining it for himself.

Tim flopped down beside him and ran his hands through his hair, trying to process the odd turn his night was taking.

“I hadn’t a clue who it was for,” he exclaimed, “We got the commission from some production company, no names were ever mentioned.”

Roger still looked a bit stunned. “What are the odds, eh?” He leaned forward and carefully placed the alien on the coffee table and took a moment to admire it with new eyes. “I can’t believe how brilliantly you managed to recreate his design...did you only go off of that Creepy Comics cover art?”

Tim smiled crookedly, “Yeah, the antennae were a bit tricky, but he turned out pretty damn accurate I think. Plus, dunno if you realised this but his eyes actually glowed at one point." He leaned forward to touch the back of the aliens head. "Looks like the wiring was taken out."

They both sat in silence for a moment, gazing at The little red-eyed visitor from outer space.

“Hold on,” Roger suddenly snickered, “Did you call him Jeff, earlier?”

Tim nodded solemnly, “Jeff the alien. Felt natural. Felt organic.”

Roger threw his head back with a hoarse cackle, “Oh that’s just fabulous.” He leaned forward and patted Jeff on the head. “Fancy that, us working together without even knowing it.”

Tim laughed along with him, but he couldn’t help but feel a small lump form in his throat.

“Funny,” he swallowed, “how it took us this long to realise.” He glanced sideways at Roger who sobered a bit and looked down at his hands.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Listen, Tim–”

Tim shook his head and cut him off, “You don’t have to start, mate. I know life has been...busy for you all.”

Roger frowned and looked away. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It’s...been calming down a bit recently. Had a lot of time to, like, think about stuff. Look back. Take stock.” He glanced at Tim, “D’you know what I mean?”

Tim nodded silently. 

“It’s just,” Roger sighed, rubbing a hand across his face tiredly, “I know it’s pointless because we can’t turn back the clock and we can’t live in the old days. But with each passing year those times feel more distant. Like a dream. And things become harder and harder to remember. It’s a strange feeling, growing old.”

“Yes, you’re positively ancient, mate,” Tim smiled, trying for some levity. 

Roger flashed him a grin from between his fingers, “Well, by industry standards I am.”

“Oh by _industry standards,_ ” Tim trilled in his best posh voice, sucking his teeth sarcastically.

With a laugh, Roger shoved him playfully with his shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t know when I started saying pretentious shit like that. It’s really not me.”

Tim picked at his sleeve, willing Roger not to go any further down the road of longing for the days of yore. They’d developed in very different directions and he most certainly didn’t want Roger to pretend like that wasn’t the case, that they were still somehow the same. It was strange, he’d known Brian considerably longer than Roger and objectively had more in common with the guitarist, what with basically both being nerds and sharing a passion for the universe. But friendship with Roger had come so fast and easy. Roger never minced words and could be cutting and witty, though never cruel, and Tim felt incredibly connected to his sense of humour. But that healthy ribbing and sharp wit only really worked if they were on the same playing field. If Roger felt like he had to act differently to spare Tim's feelings or something, then what was the point. He needed Roger to know that.

But instead of saying any of that, Tim simply smiled crookedly and teased, “You _have_ gone a bit posh.”

“Oh, yeah? Well at least _posh_ buys excellent Japanese whiskey. Here,” Roger started reaching for a fancy looking bottle on the drinks cart, but Tim put an arm on his hand.

“No, you're alright, Rog. I think I need to get going soon. Like you said, school night.”

The warm smile on Roger’s face slipped a little and a frown crumpled his brow. “Aw, you sure?”

Tim sighed and patted him on the arm. “Yeah. But thanks for, erm, inviting me. Maybe you could ring me again some time.”

Roger nodded. “'Course.”

They both stood. Being this close, Tim had to crane his neck a little to look up at Roger who had a kind of faraway look in his eye. Tim sincerely hoped he hadn’t hurt his feelings by ending the evening so abruptly. But he was starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the emotions that were being brought back tonight.

As if reading his mind, Roger hastened to put on another one of his warm smiles. 

“Thanks for coming, mate. I really appreciate you– well…”

“Yeah,” Tim said gruffly, another lump rising in his throat.

“Hey,” Roger suddenly fixed him with an intense gaze, as if trying to gauge Tim’s reaction to what he was going to say next. “So, you can say no, if you’re not up for it, but. Well.” He started fidgeting with his collar, sliding his hand into his shirt to rub nervously at his shoulder. “So, every Thursday, me and...and Fred...we have like a scrabble night?”

Tim gazed at him with wide eyes.

Hastily, Roger added in a rush, “it’s no big to-do, just me and him and too many cups of Earl Grey and maybe one or two tantrums over the existence of certain words. But no frills. Just us. I’m sure–“ he frowned again, evidently trying to choose his next words carefully, “I’m sure Freddie would love to catch up with you as well. It's been a few years, right? It’ll...it’ll be like old times. And probably more up your street than a big party.”

Tim couldn’t stop staring at him. There was an ache forming in his chest and he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth to speak. He simply nodded.

Roger looked incredibly relieved and with an enthusiastic “fantastic, mate!” he pulled Tim in for an unexpected hug. Tim awkwardly patted Roger’s back and was quite glad when the drummer finally let go. The ache might have boiled over otherwise.

Roger was already chatting about making their plans for the following week, did Tim drive here or did he need a taxi home, and where was that sodding cordless phone. Tim let Roger babble at him and steer him out of the study. He threw one last glance back at Jeff the alien, thanking him silently for he knew not what.

_It’ll be like the old times._

No, not really. But maybe still good.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, feel free to leave a comment or a kudos :)


End file.
